


Crossed (Cultural) Wires

by StarlightSkies



Series: Mending [2]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Canon-Compliant, Cardassian flirting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Unabashed Abuse of Italics, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightSkies/pseuds/StarlightSkies
Summary: Post-3x15, "Destiny." Julian has a startling revelation with some unwitting help from Chief O'Brien. He decides to confront Garak - and himself - about it. Canon-compliant; not a "getting together" fic, but still heavily implied Garashir.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir & Jadzia Dax, Julian Bashir & Miles O'Brien, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak (implied)
Series: Mending [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651711
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	Crossed (Cultural) Wires

"So like I was saying," Miles says, taking another swig of his drink, "there we are, sitting in that maintenance shaft, and she puts her hand on my arm, like she's about to…I don't know, _do_ something."

Julian nods absently, staring into his plate of ratamba stew. Maybe it's growing on him after all, though it still looks about as unappetizing as the Klingon dishes he and Garak had tried the previous week. "Is that all?"

"No, and you won't believe what she said next," Miles says darkly. "She asked me why I'd led her to believe I'd... _wanted_ her. Imagine that. Me! With a Cardassian!"

"Mm," Julian replies, still running over the requisition list he'd been working on before lunch in his mind. "Definitely not your style, Chief."

"I mean sure, we'd disagreed, but I can't believe she actually thought I'd been flirting with her." The Chief pauses to frown at him, and Julian looks up, startled. He prepares a sheepish apology, well aware that his attention is elsewhere, but the words die on his tongue as O’Brien continues.

"Don't tell me you knew and never said anything. Julian...you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

"Do what? What am I supposed to know?" Julian prompts him, perplexed, and goes to take another swallow of his Tarkalean tea.

"That Cardassians flirt by arguing, apparently," Miles huffs, still glowering in his direction. "I can't believe you sometimes."

Julian, predictably, chokes on the tea.

After a bit of vigorous coughing and some thumping on his back courtesy of a very startled Operations Chief, he manages to croak out a reply. 

"They _what?_ "

Miles is still frowning, nonplussed, as he returns to his seat. "Well I thought you _knew!_ You're the one who's Garak's friend, not me."

Garak.

_Garak._

Oh God.

"Julian? You all right?" O’Brien leans forward. "O’Brien to Bashir?"

Julian presses his napkin to his mouth as things click into place, and without warning a surge of emotions overwhelms him. It floods his brain, crashing against his skull cavity, and the only coherent thought he can process in the middle of it all is: _Garak._

Three years. 

Three long years of lunch and literature and politics and disagreeing about everything, and he’d never said a word. Had he actually been – really and truly, had Garak been _flirting_ with him the whole time? Julian struggles magnificently to wrap his head around the idea: they were just friends, weren’t they? Sure, there had been a few moments, several times when they’d shared a look for just a bit too long, maybe one or two brushes of hands that had made his heart begin to pound, but….

It all had to be some kind of horrific joke. Garak knew he wouldn’t have understood, and – what, decided to have a bit of a laugh at his expense? There was no way it could have been serious.

Was there?

"I’m fine," he says automatically, feigning a smile, albeit a shaky one. "Just fine, Chief."

Actually, he thinks he might be a bit ill.

Miles eyes him suspiciously, but shrugs in the end. "If you say so," he says and goes back to poking at his lunch, unaware of the emotional turmoil he’s just caused.

\---

"Well I assumed you knew, Julian!"

"Why do people keep saying that?" he groans into his hands, and watches Jadzia give him a sympathetic look from between his fingers. "No, actually, don’t tell me."

She stirs her drink, and the toothpick umbrella bobs towards him, adrift in the fizzy blue liquid. "But you’ve asked Garak about it, right?"

" _Asked_ – Jadzia, it’s not that simple!"

She frowns.

"So you’d prefer to stay in the dark? That’s not like you." She tuts at him and continues to sip her drink. Julian watches the straw change colors, neon pink going violet for a moment as the liquid slides upward under the force of suction. He sighs, folding his arms under his chin.

"Look, I – it’s not that I don’t want to know, but…."

"But you’re afraid it might change things, aren’t you." It’s a statement, not a question, and he is reminded once again that Jadzia Dax has three hundred-odd years of experience on him, give or take a few decades.

Yes, he _is_ afraid things might change between them.

"Julian, since you asked for my opinion, I think you should just talk to him," Jadzia says firmly. "The worst that can happen is things get a little awkward, right? Unless there’s something I’m missing." The knowing look she throws Julian doesn’t escape him, even as she tips back her head and drains her glass with a speed that would have made a Klingon proud.

He hates it when she gets that look. She can read him even better than Garak can sometimes.

"Some advice. You’ve just told me what I already know," he grouses, but she leans over to kiss his cheek anyhow, and tucks the little umbrella behind his ear.

"Sometimes that’s exactly what we need to hear." She jerks her chin up toward the holosuites, and Julian reluctantly allows himself to be pulled to his feet. "Come on, Julian, we’ve got a murder mystery to solve."

\---

Later that night, however, Julian finds that perhaps he’s a better liar than he’d first thought.

He’d told Jadzia he didn’t want anything to change, but the harder he looks, the less the idea holds up to scrutiny. In fact, he’s quite sure when he thinks back to their last lunch together, there _had_ been something, some echo of unacknowledged desire there where he could barely feel it.

They’d been meditating on a book that Jadzia herself had actually suggested, by a Trill author named Jerrad Talak.

"And that’s exactly my point, Doctor," Garak had said midway through their discussion, a driving intensity beneath the diplomatic veneer of his words. "If, as you say, Talak meant for the reader to interpret his protagonist as being the ideal embodiment of the relationship between the host and the symbiont, he wouldn’t have bothered with a dual narrative style at all."

"I find that hard to believe. The dual narrative only serves to strengthen the reader’s view of their relationship. How on Earth could it possibly detract from it?"

"They’re meant to be one being, yes? A complete enjoining of conscious minds? I fail to see how the inclusion of two perspectives highlights this fact." Garak had steepled his fingers, clearly convinced, as usual, that his interpretation was the more correct version. Rather than being deterred as he might have upon their first lunch together, Julian had pressed on.

"I think you’re missing the point," Julian recalled saying, a touch impatiently, and he’d noted the delight in Garak’s face at the challenge. "The book isn’t meant to be a rehashing of reality at all, but rather an insight into what the experience might be like for symbiont and host if they continued to function independently, yet _consciously_ shared their thoughts and feelings with the other. That conscious effort is a reflection of their compatibility."

To his surprise, Garak had graced him with a rare, genuine smile.

"Why Doctor, I do believe you’ve almost convinced me," he’d said, and through the blood pounding in his head, Julian thought he’d been able to detect – yes, there it was. The fleeting note of pride in his voice had sent a thrill through Julian, and he’d savored it before Garak had added: "I’d be curious to know Lieutenant Dax’s interpretation, however. What’s the Standard phrase – ah, ‘it takes one to know one,’ don’t you agree?"

He’d continued on some other literary line of reasoning, but all Julian could focus on had been that smile of his, the one he usually kept hidden behind whatever affectation he’d decided on that day.

Idly, Julian wonders what it would be like out of context. To have that smile, that rare glimpse of the real Elim Garak turned on him as a scaled hand enveloped his. His hands are calloused, nimble – everything a tailor’s hands should be, firm and gentle all at once. The thought had occurred to him during those trying few hours in sickbay as Julian had waited, helpless, wondering how to save his friend’s life. He hadn’t paid it much mind then, but now….

Okay, so perhaps he _is_ attracted to Garak after all.

The thought floods his veins with liquid fire, and he closes his eyes, unable to stop the torrent that follows.

And the harder he tries _not_ to think about it, the clearer the images his mind conjures up. Julian wonders how it would be, how Elim Garak would feel pressed against him, solid weight pinning him against the wall before he has his way with him, and Julian knows he’d _let him._ How would the press of their lips feel – would his mouth be as hot as a human’s, or would the slide of his tongue be cool and liquid against his own?

He curses his traitorous imagination, but the fact of the matter is that Julian can’t un-see Garak in this new light, and he can’t believe he’s been so blind to it. They’d always been tactile in their friendship, but he’d always thought of it in a friendly, platonic sort of way – never mind the subtle thrill of pleasure whenever Garak put a hand on his arm, or squeezed his shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

How would it feel, Julian wonders, to shudder to completion inside him? He can practically feel Garak’s fist in his hair and his erection pressing insistently, hot and slick against his stomach, and _God_ he can’t deny that he wants it. The thought is desperate and intrusive and he’s ashamed, feels the blood practically scalding his face in the darkness, but the imprint of the idea won’t lift from his mind.

He groans, feeling the growing discomfort in his pyjama trousers, and weighs the merits of a cold shower or a few more guilty thoughts.

(The latter wins out in the end.)

\---

Against all odds, he's decided honesty is the best policy, though he's well aware of the irony when he meets with Garak for lunch the following day.

"You know," Julian says, already regretting what he's about to say, "Chief O’Brien told me something fascinating the other day."

"And what might that be?" Garak sets his spoon down, dabbing at his mouth. "Surely I’m not about to be regaled with further tales of his racquetball heroics, am I?"

"No. In fact, it's about Cardassian customs, believe it or not," he continues, but finds that his tongue has grown thick and sluggish as he approaches the topic he’s been waiting to discuss for the better part of an hour. Had his mouth always been that dry? _No, slow down, calm thoughts, Julian._ He tries desperately to recall the alphabetized list of approved Starfleet medications to slow his feverish pulse, but realizes after only four names it’s an exercise in futility.

Garak’s interest is apparently piqued. "Cardassian? Now I must know."

_Well, Bashir, it’s now or never._

He forces himself to relax his grip on his own fork. "He said that Doctor Rejal had imparted something…interesting on him while they were working together. He was a bit vague about it, but I got the impression that—"

"Do go on," Garak says, lifting an eyeridge. "What is it you Terrans say? The suspense is killing me."

"That she’d taken his argumentative nature for – well, _flirting._ "

They both fall silent for a moment, trading looks across the table.

"And how did the Chief respond?" Garak asks carefully, something sharp finding its way into his voice.

Julian can feel a flush beginning to creep into his ears. "Well, obviously that he wasn’t interested. I mean, he’s married," he adds quickly. "And I imagine Keiko would’ve killed him otherwise."

Garak forces out a laugh, and Julian is vaguely aware of a sinking sensation somewhere in his chest.

"Naturally."

Julian remains silent for another long moment, before: "Why didn’t you tell me, Garak?"

"Tell you what, exactly?"

And without really knowing why, Julian bristles at his innocence, feigned or not.

"Oh, I don’t know. That you were having a go at me? Taking advantage of my ignorance about Cardassian culture? Tell me how I’m supposed to interpret this," he demands, and the wall of emotion slams into him again with full force. He can’t tell if it’s anger, lust, confusion – all, or perhaps none. Perhaps it’s something else entirely that he can’t yet name. "All I know is that we’ve been arguing, or whatever you want to call it for the better part of three years now, Garak, and I feel absolutely ridiculous."

He counts the thumps of his heart against his ribcage in the silence that follows, a seemingly infinite expanse, and he wishes Garak would say something. _Anything._

In reality it’s just long enough for Julian to grow embarrassed by his outburst before Garak speaks again.

"My dear," he says quietly, "I had no expectation that you were aware of the implications of our – _discussions._ I assure you, my intentions were not what you are insinuating."

"I see." As his anger begins to recede, Julian can only wonder why, instead of the anticipated relief, he’s left with only a hollow sort of disappointment in the pit of his stomach.

"A case of – what’s the expression? ‘Crossed wires,’ no doubt. A mere cultural misunderstanding," Garak says smoothly, as calm as Julian’s ever seen him but for the edge in his voice, the ever-so-slight tension in his expression that he undoubtedly thinks Julian can’t discern.

"No doubt." It’s all he can do to keep the resignation from his tone, and Julian berates himself not for the first time that day.

_Then what is it you wanted, Bashir? Some thrilling, whirlwind tryst that would probably be a death sentence for your friendship?_

He has no answer for the smug voice in his head. The harder he thinks about it, the more the truth becomes apparent: yes, he _had_ wanted Garak to be flirting with him. And perhaps he does want something – something more than friendship – but he knows he’s in no position to ask, just as Garak is in no position to give.

Julian sighs.

"I’m sorry I snapped at you," he says softly, mostly to the remnants of his curry. "I should’ve known."

"No, no, the fault is mine," Garak returns. "No harm done, I assure you."

They lapse back into uneasy quiet, and Garak surveys him from across the table, expression once more a mask of inscrutable politeness. "Something appears to be bothering you still, Doctor," he says lightly, and Julian can’t bring himself to meet his eyes.

"Hypothetically speaking…erm. Well," he says, and presses onward before his rational brain can catch up to his damned mouth. "What if we had been? Flirting, that is."

He _burns_ as the words leave his lips, but finally looks up just in time to see a flicker of surprise pass over the tailor’s face. For once, it looks as if he’s not the only one who’s been caught off guard, and a miniscule amount of hope flares inside Julian before he can tamp it out.

Garak, as usual, takes his time before answering; he leaves Julian teetering on some invisible, desperate edge – a fall from which, he fears, might be disastrous.

"If that had been the case," the tailor says at last, with a sense of finality, "I suspect something very ill-advised might have taken place."

This time Julian is sure he doesn’t imagine the wistfulness in Garak’s voice, nor the cold sorrow that snap-freezes the familiar, warm blue of his eyes.

The meaning is apparent, he realizes: _This cannot happen, Doctor, and you know very well why._

Yes, he supposes he does, as the image of deep, unmasked loathing written onto Enabran Tain’s expression pushes its way to the forefront of his mind. If he puts himself in Garak’s shoes, what’s a bit of harmless flirting, after all, no strings attached?

"I suppose so. Ill-advised," Julian echoes. He knows they can both hear the disappointment lacing his words, and he doesn’t try to hide it.

Still, as Garak stands to leave, tray in one hand, he lays his other on Julian’s shoulder much like the day they’d first met and leans close to his ear. So close, in fact, that he can feel the heat from his breath, can smell the foreign, vaguely spicy cologne he sometimes opts to wear. Julian can’t help but wonder, for a brief, absurd moment, if Garak wears it for him.

"I do hope you’ll loan me another controversial piece of Earth literature soon, Doctor. I’ve missed our debates."

His breath hitches at the whisper of words across his skin, and he represses a shiver, watching Garak's retreating form.

 _Well,_ Julian supposes, _perhaps there's no harm in a bit of flirting after all._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with round two of Garashir fic because what else am I supposed to do until this quarantine lifts? All joking aside, as much as I love the thought of our boys getting together during the series, I'm even more enamored of the whole "seven years of slow burn with a healthy dose of mutual pining" thing until they finally stop tripping over their feelings somewhere on Cardassia Prime, so that's the direction this mini-series is going in (very much out of order). As always, thanks for reading; your thoughts and critiques are always welcome and appreciated!


End file.
